The Guardian’s Echo

Echoes of the Court: Penny

I stood before the massive stone pillars with the rusted key in my pocket. It felt different now though. It wasn’t just metal. It pulsed with a heat that matched my own heartbeat. I took a deep breath and stepped forward, my eyes scanning the space between the two pillars. Whatever gate used to be between them wasn’t there anymore.

As I approached, the liquid silver bleeding from the runes leapt across the space. It shifted and spread across from top-to-bottom, pillar-to-pillar, creating a thin, shimmering veil. I didn’t need the key. At least not here, not yet.

I took another breath and glanced back at Soren. He was close behind me, the lavender in his eyes was so pale they almost looked like storm clouds. I reached out, and he took my hand. Immediately, our energy swirled around each other, and I felt warm and safe.

Through the veil, I could see a kaleidoscope of colors already. A little boy ran through a patch of weeds with a wooden sword, vanishing the moment I blinked. Then I saw the silent, grey reality of the ruins.

Together, we stepped through the veil. The sensation was nothing like walking through a door. It didn’t even feel like stepping past curtains either. Instead, it felt like submerging myself into a cold pool of water that immediately turned warm.

On the other side of the veil, we came out in the front courtyard of the estate. Instinctively, I felt my pocket for the key with my free hand. It was still there, still warm, still pulsing. The “unbound” nature of the house was instantly noticeable here.

To my left, the courtyard was a ruin. The paving stones were cracked and full of overgrown weeds. The fountains that lined the walls were dry and crumbling. To my right, the courtyard was a pristine ghost of what it used to be. The fountains flowed with sparkling water while ghost-servants in archaic Highland robes carried crates of lavender and grain.

I could hear the sounds from both eras. The whistling winds of the present mingled with the distant laughter and the clinking glasses from a past feast. It was disorienting, to say the least.

I felt my head start to swim, and a force pulling me forward, urging me closer to the house. Something was trying to claim me, whether it was the past, the house, or something else entirely, I wasn’t sure.

I felt the grounding warmth of Soren’s palm still against mine, and he gave my hand a brief squeeze. “Penny, focus,” he whispered.

“I’m okay,” I replied, my voice thick with something I couldn’t name. I cleared my throat and continued, “The house… it’s happy, Soren. It’s like it’s been holding its breath for two hundred years, and it’s finally exhaling.”

We pushed forward, and every time my boots hit a paving stone, a ripple of lavender light moved outwards, low to the ground. Where the light passed over the stones, it cleared the weeds and repaired the stone, only for it to go back to its current state when the light dimmed again. The house was waking to my touch. To my presence.

I passed two statues of women - presumably previous Ashendor Guardians. As I walked by, their stone heads turned towards me with an echoing sound of rock sliding against rock. As shocking as it was to see, I didn’t feel threatened though. It was a silent, stony acknowledgement that their bloodline had returned.

I watched Soren from the corner of my eye. His own steps produced a grey light that echoed mine. The visions of the past seemed to stabilize under the touch of his magic. His energy was a dampener, keeping the ghosts from crowding me.

The massive oak and iron doors of the manor were three times the height of a normal door. They were carved with intricate filigree and unusual clock faces. An indication of the heritage I was discovering. We climbed the stone steps, and I looked up at the doors in awe.

When I reached for the handle though, I felt a sudden burst of cold wash over me. The shadows in the corners didn’t behave correctly. They seemed to be moving against the light.

I set my jaw against the sudden anxiety. I might’ve been Aethelgardian by heritage, but I was a Chicagoan at my core. I had come too far to be frightened by a moving shadow. As I pulled the key out of my pocket, the song I had been hearing — the house’s song — reached a crescendo, becoming a roar in my ears.

The doors were just as overgrown as the courtyard, covered in moss and ghost vines. I placed my hand against the wood, and the doors vibrated against my touch, like they were shaking themselves off. The vines retreated and shriveled away as if they were being burned until they vanished completely.

The moment I unlocked the doors, they swung open with a suddenness that blew a burst of stale, dusty air through the entryway. They hit the walls with a deep, echoing sound that reminded me of a cathedral organ.

When the dust cleared, I didn’t just see the ruins of the present. I saw a Great Hall filled with soft, golden light, and at the very end, a figure in a high-backed chair was sitting as if she’d been waiting for me.

“Grandma?” I whispered, even though I couldn’t quite see her face. The chair was turned away from me, facing a large, arched window that looked out into a garden.

I felt Soren moving behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder. It wasn’t just grounding, it was protective.